


up-stage, down-stage

by someinstant



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-26
Updated: 2011-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-15 23:13:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someinstant/pseuds/someinstant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Diana runs the show, Neal forgets his lines, and Peter doesn't know when to leave the stage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	up-stage, down-stage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WPAdmirer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WPAdmirer/gifts).



Diana stood up, dusting off her knees and handing Caffrey's tracking anklet to the agent waiting behind her. "You all right?" she asked. Caffrey looked a little pale around the lips. Uncomfortable in the skin he was currently wearing, which was understandable. Burke should have been the one doing the pre-op check, and they both knew it.

"You know we've got the whole area blanketed," she told him unnecessarily. "The messenger got the bug in yesterday, no problem, so we'll be able to hear you if you keep it near the office. And we've got eyes in as many places as possible."

Caffrey nodded, shook his head. "Yeah, of course," he said, and flashed a sick grin up at her from where he sat. "I'm good," he said. Rolled his neck a little. Stood up. Pulled at his hair with one hand and let his shoulders slump.

Diana studied him seriously. Caffrey's cheek was still a little banged up from the fist-first greeting Ravel's crew had given him three weeks ago when he'd initially made contact. He wasn't moving too stiffly anymore, but if he had to run--

Jones opened the door to the van. "Diana, we're go in fifteen," he said. He gave Caffrey a quick once-over; Neal had insisted on the all-black look, although Diana personally thought it was a bit too literal. "All dressed up and ready for some second-story work, huh?"

Caffrey slouched over to the half-open door. "Damn straight," he drawled, and there wasn't anything of Caffrey-- of Neal-- in the expression at all. It was all Jimmy Martell, aspiring member of Ravel's band of merry crooks. "You know how it goes," he said, jumping down out of the van and landing with an un-Neal-like two-footed _thud_. Diana followed. "You can take the man out of the con--"

"Don't you finish that sentence, Caffrey."

Diana spun on her heels, said, "What the _hell_ , boss?" and glared at her clearly insane superior who'd been shot twice by Ravel four days prior.

"You shouldn't be up," observed Jones. This was both very obvious and very true; Peter was a funny grey color and swaying a little on his crutches. "Hang on," Jones said, and scrambled back in the van.

Caffrey shook his head at Burke. "No," he said, not sounding at all like Jimmy Martell. "You can't be here. You need to go home. Right now." He stuck a hand in his pocket, then realized that Martell wasn't carrying Caffrey's phone. Diana hadn't seen him make that sort of mistake before; he was blurring his lines. Not good. "What did you do," Neal bit out, glaring at Burke, "call a taxi when her back was turned?"

"Neal," Peter said mildly, "It's all right, I left El a note, I just wanted to see if--"

"Do you have _any idea_ how worried she'll be?" He sounded furious. Diana raised her eyebrows; she'd never heard Caffrey raise his voice before. Not when it wasn't a con.

Neal turned to face her. "Diana," he said, and he sounded off-balance under the smooth way he said her name, "would you please call Elizabeth and let her know that her idiot husband is wandering the city without adult supervision?"

"Neal," Peter began, and Jones crawled out of the van, dragging a chair behind him. Diana took hold of it while Clinton was locking the doors and yanked it over to where Peter balanced on two crutches and his good leg.

"You, _sit_ ," she instructed. Burke sat, awkwardly, and let the crutches clatter to the ground. Rolled his eyes, but oofed a little in relief to be off his feet. Foot. Whatever. "Don't talk," she ordered. "Caffrey's right, boss. This was dumb with a capital D, and if your wife wants to string you up by your toenails, I will help her."

Burke opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, and she pointed at him menacingly. Pulled out her phone. "Neal," she said, not looking at him-- Elizabeth's number was in her there somewhere, she knew it was-- "go with Jones and review the timeline with tactical. I'll be over in a minute. Tell Hughes we're go in five." She found the number, hit _send_ , and glanced up.

Caffrey was staring at Burke the way New Yorkers looked at crime scene tape. Apprehensive. Sickly fascinated. A persistent, magnetic curiosity layered with a gloss of guilt and self-loathing. Peter had his eyes closed and looked like he was trying not to throw up, his splinted leg stretched out in front of him like a log.

"Caffrey," she said sharply, and he looked back at her. His face blanked like a curtain coming down: nothing to see here. She tilted her head over towards Clinton, and Caffrey went without a word.

Diana put the phone to her ear just in time to catch Elizabeth's saying, "--sume is about the ridiculous note I just found from my husband," sounding much calmer about the situation than Christy probably ever would.

"We've got him right here," Diana said dryly. She liked Elizabeth, who had thought the whole fake-affair thing with Burke was hysterical. "He looks like he's about to fall over," she informed her, "but he's in one piece. Would you like me to put him on the phone so you can yell at him?"

"If you wouldn't mind," Elizabeth said sweetly, and Diana winced a little in sympathy for Burke.

"Hang on a moment," she said to Elizabeth, and tapped Peter lightly on the shoulder. "Boss." She waved the phone in his face when he opened his eyes. "Elizabeth wants a word."

Burke narrowed his eyes. Took the phone. "Traitor," he growled, covering the mic with his thumb.

Diana raised an eyebrow. "Don't even. I've got to send Caffrey in now while he's vibrating like a harp string," she told him, "because you couldn't take anymore daytime TV. So don't try to put this on me, boss," she said.

"I need to be here," Peter said, insistent. "It's a bad plan. Neal--"

"--doesn't like the plan anymore than you do, Peter," Diana agreed. "No one likes the plan. It's a shitty plan. We all hate the plan."

"Then why the hell are you _sending him in_?" Peter hissed.

Diana folded her arms in front of her chest. "Because he _asked me to_ , Peter," she bit out. "Funnily enough, he's not crazy about letting mobsters who almost kill his partner skip town. And neither am I, frankly," she told him. "So we're doing this, and you are going to stay here and talk to your wife, and you will apologize to her, and I'm going to find a medic to come and babysit you until we're done."

She glanced over her shoulder, where Jones and Caffrey were talking to an agent she didn't know with a radio in hand. Probably checking in with the snipers who'd be covering the west side of the warehouse. Neal's shoulders were slumped again; he was back to Martell's body posture. Good. That was good.

She looked back to Burke. He was watching Caffrey with the eyes of a trainer, checking his thoroughbred's gait before the start of a race. He nodded a little to himself. Said, "Yeah. Okay, yeah, he's ready to go," and nodded again.

"Talk to your wife," Diana told him, turning to leave. "I'll watch Neal. It'll be okay."

Burke nodded, and lifted the phone to his ear. "El, honey," he said, "I'm sorry," and his eyes didn't leave Caffrey's back for a second.


End file.
